Diary of a home bird
APOLOGIES folks, my dear column took a little sabbatical and it was the third anniversary of my musings on these pages and all. Oh well, here’s to year four, I guess!
The last couple of weeks were a bit manic. The old work life balance went a bit askew, running into the house to grab a sandwich was quickly followed by musical rehearsals and committee meetings.
The hectic schedule resulted in the mind not being as sharp as usual (being honest it’s not that sharp at the best of times), but really I’m just trying to make excuses for what I am about to tell you all.
My name is Ciara Galvin and I don’t iron my clothes. And when I do, there’s potential for a house fire.
Growing up watching madre iron duvet covers, and indeed anything she could get her hands on, I genuinely thought she was crazy. ‘Sure don’t you sleep in them? Who cares if they’re creased?’ was my outcry when the dreaded iron or industrial ironing press would come out. Seriously, sometimes the utility room resembled Aussie prison drama ‘Prisoner: Cell Block H’, there was always somebody ironing.
Maybe this is were I got my deep loathing for ironing. When I go clothes shopping I’m not influenced by the current trends from Milan, Paris or New York, oh no, I look for whether it can be worn without an iron being ran over it.
The boyf knows myself and the iron don’t get on, and if on the off chance he requires a shirt to be ironed, he inevitably has to re-iron it after I’m done.
Recently though I’ve discovered a penchant for denim shirts, coupling them with a pair of my favourite jeans for a good old Canadian tuxedo (double denim) look.
I can usually get away with not ironing the jeans, thanks to a tip from my lazy brother, a few flicks of water on them and a quick spin in the dryer usually does the trick. The shirt, however, does require the dreaded iron.
At work in Westport recently, I found myself having a ‘Home Alone’ moment – you know, when the parents realise they forgot Kevin? Taking off a layer to reveal my freshly ironed shirt, it hit me that I wasn’t sure whether I’d turned off the iron … in Ballinrobe. Despite telling myself a number of times ‘You probably turned it off’, I couldn’t shake off the doubt.
I contacted a neighbour and enquired whether there was any smoke coming from the house. Of course her reply that there wasn’t didn’t allay my fears that the boyf would return from work to a pile of ash.
There was only one thing for it, I had to contact the roomies.
Mother was more panicked than I, especially when we realised they didn’t have a spare key for the new abode.
A subsequent phone call from her informed me that my knight in shining armour (the male roomie in his VW Tiguan) would meet me to get a key.
Telling the boss man I had to leave work for a while as I thought I might have burned down the house wasn’t my finest moment, but needs must.
Following a bit of a goose chase (we both drove past each other on the road), the exchange was completed.
Thirty minutes later news came through: The house was intact and yes, and the iron had, indeed, been switched off.
And what did the boyf think of all this? Well, he just wondered why I got Pops to drive all the way to Digger Jay’s when a key had already been left out for the plumber.
So that’s it, the denim shirts, and the iron, are going in the bin.
In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old trying to get used to living away from her parents.